


The Wrong Impression of the Right One

by aliciutza, LustOnMyFingers, TheScarletGarden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Almost Everyone Lives, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Humor, Incest, Jon is a Targaryen, Jonerys, Light Angst, Lust at First Sight, Mutual Pining, Pining Idiots, Romance, Smut, characters being terrible at communicating, minor polyamorous relationship, the Rebellion was a bust
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 10:01:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25847740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliciutza/pseuds/aliciutza, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LustOnMyFingers/pseuds/LustOnMyFingers, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheScarletGarden/pseuds/TheScarletGarden
Summary: Even before they were born, Jon and Daenerys were destined to be together. That is, according to King Rhaegar, anyway. Having been fostered in Winterfell and Sunspear respectively, the betrothed pair are as different as ice and fire. When their lives converge again at King's Landing for their wedding, one misunderstanding leads to another until they both find themselves dreading their fate.
Relationships: Arianne Martell/Viserys Targaryen, Elia Martell/Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Robb Stark/Margaery Tyrell
Comments: 149
Kudos: 333





	The Wrong Impression of the Right One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dragon_and_Direwolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragon_and_Direwolf/gifts).



> Martha - You've been hard at work for ages providing our fandom with so much incredible content to help repair our Jonerys hearts, showing no signs of stopping any time soon (thank the gods!). It's time you get a little something in return! Wishing the happiest of namedays to our beautiful and talented wife. ♥♥
> 
> -
> 
> Writing by aliciutza, LustOnMyFingers and TheScarletGarden.  
> Moodboard by aliciutza.  
> Artwork by LustOnMyFingers.

The evening was like any other, shrouded in a muted darkness gentled only by a few flickering torches along the walls. All was still but for the shadow dancing at his feet, mimicking his every movement, and all quiet but for the faint echo of iron and his restless mind. Sweat beaded his brow, a soreness settling into his arms as he slashed at the dummy again and again, hoping the repetition might dull his thoughts like the sword’s edge.

“Jon!”

The sound of his name snapped him right out of it. Jon stopped and turned to see his cousin Robb approaching with Theon Greyjoy close at his heels, the pair carrying a pitcher and some mugs. Catching his breath, he returned the sword to its rack as they made their way over. He knew then he wouldn’t get much solitude tonight. Just this once, though, he did not mind.

Robb set to work, topping off each mug as Theon helped himself to the nearest one. He gracelessly plopped onto a barrel, his ale sloshing as he nodded towards the dummy. “Nervous?”

“Why would I be?” Jon shrugged.

Robb passed him a drink before taking a seat. “Well, we do depart for King’s Landing tomorrow. In less than three moons time, you will be married!”

Jon hid a grimace behind the brim of his cup. Ever since he was a boy of three, he had been betrothed to his aunt, the Princess Daenerys. Their paths had already been decided for them since childhood: Jon was to be fostered in the North with his uncle’s family, and she, in the South with the Martells, his siblings’ family. The pair hadn’t seen each other for years. He had but faint recollections of the tiny, meek little girl with silver hair and purple eyes who used to constantly trail behind his father. The king loved his little sister so much that he let her follow him; everywhere he went, Daenerys went too. Jon remembered it used to make him jealous when they were little. _It was unfair of me_ , he reflected. _She had already lost both parents before she was a single day old_.

“Everyone marries sooner or later,” Jon shrugged again, sitting down with the others. A cool breeze caressed his heated face, as was typical during late summer evenings in the North. He took a deep breath, letting the fresh air settle in his lungs, the taste of it somehow both bitter and sweet.

Truth be told, he _was_ a little nervous, but he would never admit so to the others, certainly not to _Greyjoy_. Betrothals were often decided early for the highborn, and especially for members of the royal family. He always knew it would happen. Yet, it had seemed ever distant, something so far into the future that it was easily forgotten.

And then, suddenly, his wedding was on the horizon, imminently looming. In a sense, Jon supposed it would be for the best, to do his duty and get it out of the way so he could finally start his intended life.

“I hear she’s a great beauty,” Theon interrupted his musings.

Jon had to rein in a chuckle. _Have you seen my family? Of course she would be beautiful._ “I suppose,” he agreed.

“Lucky,” Greyjoy sighed before lamenting, “Knowing _my_ luck, I’ll end up married to a woman that looks like a fish since you two hooked the last of the good matches in all of Westeros. It’s _so_ unfair.”

Robb laughed nervously, as he always did when someone mentioned his own betrothal to the Rose of the Reach. He had never met Margaery Tyrell, but tales of her beauty ran rampant throughout the realm. Jon could see he was fairly eager to finally meet his young bride-to-be in King’s Landing and see for himself if the rumours were true.

“Don’t fret, Greyjoy,” Robb snickered. “Maybe you’ll manage to catch a Frey.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Theon shoved at the other boy’s shoulder, his scowl morphing into a cocksure grin. “Just wait until your betrothed sees _me_. You can have her hand; she’s got _something else_ I’d rather take.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Robb sneered, pushing Theon so hard he almost fell from the barrel.

Jon laughed as the pair bickered. It was strangely reassuring to see that some things never changed, managing to calm the raging storm in his stomach, even if just a bit. Though he and Theon often butted heads when they first fostered with the Starks as boys, by now, the three of them had grown as close as brothers. _I’m going to miss this_.

With the unbidden thought, his melancholy came rushing back. His whole life was about to change the following morning, and he would soon become a married man, no longer living in the North, lord of his own keep—Dragonstone. He wasn’t one to complain about the new responsibilities and duties that came with growing up, but in the darkness of night, as the silence enveloped the castle that had been his home for nearly eight years, he guessed he could allow himself to feel a bit sad about it.

He stayed with Robb and Theon for a while longer, then, after they both retired for the night, he wandered around the keep for a few more moments, sliding his hand mindlessly over the rough stone walls. He observed everything he could see in the faint torchlight, committing to memory the details of his last night in Winterfell.

 _Home_.

Jon regretted that he couldn’t remember when it snowed last—wishing he could feel just one more crunch of fresh snow under his boot, the cold kisses of big fat snowflakes falling on his face, Ghost’s chilled fur after a run in the Wolfswood with his pack.

Inevitably, his feet carried him to the godswood. He ventured further, retracing the path from memory when the light became scarcer. A sliver of pale moonlight reflected on the calm waters of the pool and cast unusual shadows on the carved face of the heart tree.

He stared into the hollow eyes before him, noting the distinct impression that, despite his solitude, one was never truly alone in the godswood. The old gods were his gods. And perhaps, sensing his inner turmoil, they were responsible for the peace that washed over him, then.

Jon closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It wasn’t just that he was leaving the place he’d called home for so many years.

For as much as he had known, almost all his life, that one day he’d be a husband—only now did the weight of that commitment suddenly strike him. Soon, he would have a wife to take care of, and if the gods were good, children of his own to rear alongside her—for better or worse. It was the ‘worse’ that terrified him—the possibility that he, or perhaps _she_ , might resent the match, the pair destined to a loveless marriage based on little more than duty. However, it was the possibility of the ‘better’ that excited him, that he might find true happiness with Daenerys—perhaps even passion.

Whenever that very hope flickered, though, Jon quickly smothered it before it could catch flame. Involuntarily, his mind drifted to his uncle Ned and Lady Stark; although their marriage didn’t strike him as passionate, they were certainly content. If he and Daenerys got along at least as well as his uncle and aunt, Jon would count himself lucky, indeed.

Something told him that Daenerys was likely a far cry from the type of woman he’d dreamt about all his life—a warrior woman, whose strength and wit could rival any man’s. Jon had been running with the wolves for too long to pine for some willowy princess. Alas, Daenerys _was_ a princess. And having been fostered in Dorne since she was a girl, he guessed his aunt’s manners would more closely resemble those of Queen Elia, renown the realm over for her grace and kindness. When Jon thought of it that way, he felt rather ashamed to dream of anything more—for any man should be lucky to have a wife so dutiful.

The mere thought of Queen Elia brought a smile to his face, then—the gentle queen who had spoiled him just as she had her own children, Aegon and Rhaenys. His smile swelled, remembering that in only a few weeks from now, he’d get to see his siblings again. For as much as he had found a home in the north, he missed his family dearly—even his poised and well-mannered father, the king, and of course his mother, the disfavored queen, whose rash boldness complemented her royal counterparts. Jon missed Lyanna most of all.

It was his mother who had insisted he foster at Winterfell all those years ago—trusting her brother, Lord Eddard Stark, to provide him with a proper northern upbringing. If truth be told, Jon felt about as Targaryen as he looked—which wasn’t much at all. He’d been born with his mother’s dark hair and eyes, more closely resembling his cousin Arya than his siblings. The north was where he felt he belonged.

And though Jon always knew he’d have to say goodbye, what he didn’t realise was how hard it would be when the day finally came.

Flattening a palm to the pale bark, Jon bid a silent farewell.

. . .

Dany let out a sigh of relief as the carriage entered the streets of King’s Landing, leaving the bumpier stretch of the road behind. “ _Finally_. I was growing sick,” Arianne commented, stretching and yawning lazily in her seat. “I cannot wait to be out of this tiny, stifling wagon. It feels like we’ve been on the road for _ages_.”

The silver-haired princess laughed. “I would’ve rather rode the whole way here. My cheeks are as stiff as iron.”

Arianne snorted, leaning out of the carriage to gaze at the imposing figure of the Red Keep approaching. “That’s not how princesses behave in King’s Landing,” she murmured. “How does it feel to be back home?”

 _Home_.

Daenerys wasn’t sure if returning to King’s Landing could be considered a homecoming. She had spent most of her life in Dorne, and her heart already ached for Sunspear. The pain grew worse upon realising that the next time she set foot in the Old Palace, it would be strictly as a guest.

“Thrilling,” she half-heartedly muttered, knowing the older girl was able to read through her blatant lie. In truth, a part of her was glad to be back in King’s Landing—to see her family again. What terrified her was the _permanence_ of this change. Her life would never be the same as before.

Dany had a hard time imagining those changes to be for the best—she would marry soon, and then head to Dragonstone after a few moons—the cold and dreary island a far cry from the colourful and sunny Dorne. And her _husband_ … Dany didn’t remember much about her nephew Jon, except that he was a quiet child, extraordinarily prone to long and inexplicable sessions of brooding. _That he surely took from his father_ , she mused, observing the distant figure of King Rhaegar as the carriage entered the walls of the Red Keep.

“Sister,” he smiled at her as she descended from the wagon, offering a hand to steady her. “You’re here, finally.”

“Brother,” she couldn’t help but grin, stepping into his embrace. She could barely relish in the warm contact before she was yanked right from the king’s grasp. Dany found herself enveloped again, this time in the scent of winter roses and a pair of familiar, slim arms. When Queen Lyanna finally let go, she patted Dany’s cheek affectionately. “Oh, but _look_ at you!” the older woman sniffed, and Dany was surprised to see her eyes were glassy. “You are radiant. Even more gorgeous than the last time I saw you. One look at you and my boy won’t know what hit him—”

Queen Elia interrupted the flattery with a graceful chuckle. “Let the poor girl breathe, Lya.” Turning towards Daenerys, she extended her arms in greeting. Dany soaked up the affection of her family, embracing them all in turns.

“There will be a feast in your honour tonight, little sister,” Rhaegar said as he escorted her inside the castle. “A small one, I promise. It’s been too long since we were all… well, _almost_ all, together.” There was a thrill of enthusiasm in the king’s voice.

She could only imagine how happy he was to soon have his son back from the North. “How long until Jon arrives?” she asked.

Her brother’s eyes positively shone with excitement. “A sennight, if the gods are good. The weather has been lenient lately, so he should not be delayed.”

“That’s wonderful news,” Dany smiled, hoping that her brother would not catch the signs of distress in her tone. Luckily, the king seemed oblivious.

“I will leave you to your chambers. I’m sure you want to rest after travelling all the way from Dorne.” He raised her hand to his lips, softly brushing them over her knuckles, “We have missed you terribly.”

“And I, you.” She lingered for a moment longer, memories of her childhood rushing back to her, of her oldest brother, her rock.

Left to the solitude of her rooms, Dany sighed softly. It _did_ feel good to be back, more than she had anticipated. But she couldn’t help but be nervous at the prospect of her betrothed’s arrival. Was Jon the same as she remembered him? Was he still the quiet and sweet boy she recalled? He would play with her when they were nought but little children. But eight years had passed since they had seen each other last, and time had a way of changing men in unpredictable ways.

Arianne always shook her head when northerners were mentioned, saying how dreary it must be, to grow up with such an uptight notion of honour in a land that valued duty above all else. _“Even above love,”_ she had said _. “When your brother took the Lady Lyanna as his second wife, most of them were ready to side with the Baratheons. They didn’t care that poor Lyanna despised Robert. A promise is a promise, even if keeping it makes everyone miserable.”_

Dany supposed there were worse things than a dutiful husband, but was that all there would be to her marriage? Often, she dreamt of passion, of a love that burned as bright as dragonfire. After all, since growing up in Sunspear, she heard countless tales of her namesake, Daenerys, the Princess Consort of Dorne. By all accounts, her marriage to her husband Maron Martell was a happy union that finally brought peace to a war-torn realm. And though the only soul Daenerys had ever confessed it to was Arianne, it was Daemon Blackfyre that intrigued her more, a man who loved his half-sister so much that he rose in rebellion for merely being denied her hand...

“You’re doing it again,” a voice teased from the threshold, startling her. Dany turned to see Arianne’s fond smile.

“Doing what?”

“Brooding. A Targaryen trait, I daresay. You and your brother, both.”

“Which one?” Dany feigned ignorance, her face slipping into a smirk.

“The one I didn’t marry,” the Dornish beauty laughed. Dany had to agree, Viserys had more of a tendency to boast than brood, contrary to Rhaegar. “Let’s prepare for the feast,” her good-sister said, effectively distracting her from her musings.

. . .

The feast her brother arranged was, luckily, a quiet, intimate affair. Dany loved him all the more for it. Already, she was sensing the rigidity of court rules in King’s Landing, rules she was well accustomed to, but she had grown to feel more at ease in Dorne’s carefree environment. As much as she loved being with her family again, the king’s extended court could feel quite _stifling_.

“This meat tastes absolutely divine. Are these Dornish spices I taste?” Arianne asked, prompting a smile from Queen Elia.

“They are, Doran sent them to me not long ago.”

“Good. I fear the further north you venture, the less they understand the importance of a little _spice_ in life,” the Princess of Dorne moaned appreciatively as she took another bite.

Dany couldn’t help but notice as Lyanna, a native northerner, feigned offence at the comment. Beside her, fellow queen Elia nudged her wife’s arm, arching a playful brow. Though quick, the women exchanged a look that conveyed precisely the sort of passion Dany, herself, longed for. She sighed.

“It’s a good thing you influenced the cuisine at court,” Arianne continued, “It has improved _significantly_.”

Both queens laughed, shaking their heads at Arianne’s antics. “Say what you will, but kidney pies have their charm,” Lyanna declared, exaggerating a solemn tone, only to break into a giggle as Dany scrunched her face in revulsion.

“I’m sure you will have ample opportunity to see the Northern charm for yourself, soon,” Rhaenys piped in, a slight smirk on her face.

“Yours is a match blessed by the gods,” Rhaegar declared, almost blushing at the implication that his son and sister might soon engage in the most... _physical_ side of marriage. His children rolled their eyes, just as they always did whenever he mentioned the prophecy that, apparently, foretold the fated union of ice and fire. “My son is a good man. I am sure you will be very happy together.”

Daenerys only nodded, her objections dying in her throat before she could speak them. She would not hurt her brother with her doubts. He was proud of her, she could see, for so graciously submitting to her duty, for taking his notions to do right by the great Targaryen legacy to heart. He believed that she and Jon were destined to be, going so far as to give them Dragonstone, even if tradition would have demanded otherwise.

Arianne could see right through Dany’s unsure smile, though. She leaned towards her, grasping her hand gently, whispering her reassurances so that only Dany could hear them. “Women can take lovers, too. You don’t have to forget dreams of true love, as long as the children are your husband’s.”

It was the practical approach she had come to expect from Arianne, and Dany knew she meant to comfort her with this truth, yet something about the idea didn’t sit right with the young princess. She didn’t say anything, though, choosing instead to squeeze Arianne’s hand back and reciprocate her brother’s proud smile. Even surrounded by the love of her family, the princess felt uncomfortably alone.

That night, Dany tossed and turned in her bed for what felt like hours, finally resigning to the fact that sleep would not come. The weight of her family’s expectations sat heavily on her shoulders. She had no say over her marriage, and thus, no say over her future. Her _life_. Dany trusted that her brother would never promise her hand to an undeserving man, even if it was his own son, but she couldn’t quite quell the part of her heart that wanted for more than just an agreeable match. The part of her that craved for love, and passion, and freedom.

Sighing, Dany slipped out of her bed, quietly making her way to the balcony just outside her window. The moon cast her gentle light over the sleeping castle, a few flickering torches dancing in the courtyard beneath. Dany sat on the stone parapet, idly dangling her legs.

As she observed the shining stars above her head, she couldn’t help but fall into a pleasant daydream that had become recurrent in recent times. Dany wasn’t a princess in this fantasy, but a common woman, living amidst the smallfolk who didn’t care about advantageous matches or courtly etiquette. In her dreams, she would meet a man with whom she fell in love, and who loved her back. They would marry of their own volition, not fearing the prospect of a life together, but finding comfort in it.

There was a sudden flash in the sky. Dany lifted her head, spotting what looked like the remnants of a rare shooting star. Her gaze lingered, though, hoping it meant that the gods had heard her prayers.

. . .

Jon’s heart stuck in his throat as soon as King’s Landing came into sight. He couldn’t decide between spurring his horse so that he could reach it faster, or perhaps turn it the other way around entirely.

“Already smells like shit,” Greyjoy complained from behind him.

It eased his nerves some, Theon being unapologetically himself, completely oblivious that Jon was harbouring a near-emotional collapse at the mere sight of the Red Keep.

“Theon—” his uncle warned from the head of their convoy.

His friend apologised for his crassness and fell back to his previous place.

As soon as they passed the inner gates, there were flower garlands hanging from the buildings, musicians singing, and people dancing and cheering. He wondered whether his betrothed was awaiting his arrival, too.

It only took seeing his mother waiting for him at the top of the stairs, looking more beautiful than ever, for Jon to spur his horse straight for the keep. He rushed to dismount, getting caught up in the reins and nearly falling on his arse. Queen Lyanna met him halfway, pulling him into her arms, stroking his hair and whispering sweet nothings. She smelled just the way he remembered—like a bed of winter roses.

“My little pup,” she cooed.

“ _Mother—_ ” Jon griped, blushing at the familiar endearment.

“Let me look at you,” she pulled back, cupping her hands on either side of his face. Her big eyes shone in the evening sun. She was as beautiful and as radiant as he remembered, the years kind on her features.

“You’ve grown so big and handsome,” she squeezed his face in her palms and scrunched her nose at him. For a moment, it felt as if he’d gone back in time, as she was about to touch the tip of her nose to his and give him a wolf kiss. “The older you get, the more I see your father in you.”

Jon disagreed, for he still couldn’t see any resemblance between them.

“She had half a mind to hop on her steed and greet you at the gate,” the king chuckled, patiently waiting for his queen to finish smothering their son.

His mother scoffed. “And he would have been right behind me.”

When she let go of him, Rhaegar finally approached. “Welcome home, wolf pup,” he grinned, pulling him into a big embrace.

“Not you, too,” Jon groaned, but squeezed his father tighter.

He chuckled. “Only because it makes your mother laugh.” Jon had truly missed them.

The rest of the party made it to the keep. Rhaegar and Lyanna stayed behind to greet them, as Queen Elia awaited him at the top of the stairs with her arms wide open. Jon didn’t hesitate to hug her to his chest.

“Welcome back, my prince,” she softly kissed his cheek. “Let’s wait for them inside the keep; you’ll find it’s much cooler.” As always, Elia knew what he wanted without even having to ask. It was hotter in King’s Landing than he remembered, and much more humid than he was used to, so he was grateful for the respite from the sun once inside.

Just as he began to take in his familiar surroundings, his eyes inevitably landed on her; it could only be _her_. Jon stopped in his tracks, quite literally, even halting the queen beside him. If she had said something, then, he couldn’t hear, his senses overwhelmed just by meeting her violet eyes.

 _Daenerys_.

There wasn’t a soul alive who could have prepared him for her beauty: it was as if the old gods themselves had plucked moonbeams and weaved them into silver braids. Two eyes of amethyst, an even deeper violet than he’d remembered—or maybe it was the lilac dress she wore that made them shine that much brighter.

Her pink lips parted— _does she even remember me?_ he wondered.

Daenerys was the first to break eye contact as she curtsied. “My prince,” she greeted.

He let go of Elia’s arm to bow, “Princess Daenerys.”

“Welcome home,” she smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

Jon frowned. “Likewise.”

He awkwardly stood, waiting for what—he didn’t know—quite unsure where to go from there. Would it be too bold to mention that he was looking forward to the wedding? _No_ , that sounded too much like Greyjoy.

Mercifully, he was saved shortly thereafter by his sister, who sped by Daenerys, almost knocking her down in pursuit of him. Rhaenys jumped right into his arms and Jon squeezed and lifted her off her feet, the pair laughing in delight.

“I missed you, big sister,” he sighed as he set her down.

“Not so big anymore!” she remarked, gesturing her shock at just how much he’d grown since they’d last met.

Jon felt his cheeks flush in embarrassment, eyes frantically darting around to find Daenerys once more—but just as quickly as he’d first spotted her, she was already gone.

. . .

The second welcoming feast was such a spectacle that Dany could hardly focus on any one thing. The Great Hall was buzzing not just with the whole of court, but hundreds of guests from around both Dorne and the North, the cavernous space filled with the echo of clinking cutlery, indistinct chatter, and lively music. She and her nephew sat front and center, their family arranged in stretches on either side of the high table—Jon with his sister seated to his right, and to Dany’s left, Arianne.

Both women, however, were up and out of their seats, each lending a hand to the squirrely-looking ironborn between them—at least, if the garish golden kraken on his doublet were any indication—trying his best to follow the steps of a complicated Dornish dance. The servers carried trays piled high with food and drink, stepping carefully around the dozen-or-so dancers as the circle they formed widened, hands locked together while they moved in sync.

Dany eyed Jon carefully as he watched the dancers, his dark eyes following the awkward ironborn, crinkling as he laughed. When one of the servers came near enough, her nephew lifted himself to swipe another horn of ale, the dark liquid sloshing onto the table as he plopped back into his seat and took a swig, wiping the foam from his upper lip.

Jon had managed to say all of _one_ word to Dany since their reunion. _Likewise_ , he’d said—that was it. His tone utterly disinterested. And she couldn’t forget the way his smile all but died the moment he saw her. Though she tried to explain it away—that the move to King’s Landing must be just as tough for him as it was for her—his disappointment felt deeply humiliating.

Especially since the moment she laid eyes on him felt like falling—her stomach jumping to her throat, the wind knocked right from her lungs. He was as gorgeous a creature as she’d ever seen—thick, raven-dark hair tied into a knot, a strong brow over solemn onyx eyes, and fat, pouty lips framed by a trimmed beard that stretched over his jaw. _Gods_.

She hated the way he made her feel—like her fluttering heart might just give up and stop beating altogether. And she hated that she liked looking at him so much, silently cursing herself whenever she realised she’d been staring. To make matters worse, Jon had even caught her a few times, thankfully looking away quickly enough to spare her the embarrassment of it.

Leaving the clumsy ironborn to fend for himself against the buxom and half-drunk Arianne, Princess Rhaenys wandered back to the high table, this time approaching Dany’s side, rather than the seat beside her brother.

Rhaenys’ smile was always warm, a sweetness to her tone that never failed to put Dany at ease. “Are you enjoying yourself?” she asked.

“The feast is magnificent,” Dany replied, toying with her goblet.

Rhaenys chuckled lightly, settling more comfortably on the chair. “Of course father would want for your first meal together to be grandiose, he’s thrilled now that you’re both here.” Her niece leaned closer, dropping her voice to a whisper. “You look perfect together. My brother always reminded me of the midnight sky, dark and quiet, and you’re as bright and beautiful as the moon.”

Dany felt heat flush in her cheeks at the comparison. “Please, tell me you won’t start speaking in riddles and prophecies as the king does,” she begged.

“Oh, no, you have my word,” Rhaenys chuckled. “It is only what I see.” With a dreamy smile, she nodded towards Jon. “You ought to talk to him. My brother may not be a man of many words, granted, but you’ll find he has a pleasant voice when he decides to use it.”

Daenerys laughed then, although there was some bitterness in it. “ _When_ , my dear niece.”

“Mayhaps all he needs is a push…” Rhaenys smiled, her lips quirking just like her mother’s. She straightened her spine, raising her voice so that she could be heard over the din and chatter of the large hall. “You look stunning in this gown! Is this Myrish lace on the bodice?”

Dany blinked, smoothing a hand down the soft fabric of her dress. “Oh, well, yes—”

“Doesn’t she look gorgeous, dear brother?”

Startled, Jon almost spat his ale, managing to stifle a cough. He frowned, giving her a cursory glance that Dany wished had lasted longer. “It looks… befitting of a princess,” he muttered, his attention once again shifting away from her. Dany suddenly resented that Rhaenys had been right about one thing: his voice was as rich as velvet under the deep Northern burr he clearly vested from the Starks. She found she hated it.

“Thank you, my prince,” she cooly replied, feeling her features morph into a scowl. Dany could hear her niece sigh in frustration, but it didn’t matter. Jon wasn’t even trying to feign interest in her. It dawned on her then just how little he was looking forward to having her as his bride, but there was nothing either could do to change the fact they’d soon be wed. Her stomach gave a painful twist, and she tried to distract herself once again by surveying the crowd.

The music shifted to a melancholy tune, one that Daenerys knew well. True enough, she spotted Viserys walking towards her from the musicians’ gallery. A smile spread on her face, recognising the song as her brother’s favourite. Memories from Sunspear flooded her, of the many times they had practised dancing to this very song, recalling all the steps he had taught her, himself. He sauntered towards her, coming to a stop right beside her seat.

“Would you honour me with a dance, sweet sister?”

“Shouldn’t you be asking for your _wife’s_ hand?” she teased.

Viserys cast Arianne a quick, over-the-shoulder glance. “And deny her the chance to drive me mad with envy?” he smirked, “ _Nonsense_.” He extended a hand in offering, “Come.”

Dany shot her nephew a weary look beside her, almost afraid to cause offence by giving her brother the first dance. Looking a bit flustered, Jon gave an exaggerated nod, “Go,” he urged with a polite smile, and Dany found herself wondering whether the prince knew how to dance at all.

Her brother led her onto the floor, the pair exchanging a customary curtsy and bow before grasping each other by the hand.

“So tell me,” Viserys insisted as they began, “I’m dying to know what it’s like to be part of a union fashioned by the _gods_ , themselves.” Sarcasm dripped from his every word.

“Would that I knew...” she lamented.

Though their resemblance was uncanny, her elder brothers were like night and day. Rhaegar was idealistic and gentle-hearted, whereas Viserys was much more sceptical and, dare she think it, _haughty_. And while it was often the king she was compared to, Dany shared in Viserys’ dubiety, at least where her union with Jon was concerned. He may be beautiful, but a destined match he certainly wasn’t—no matter how hard Rhaegar had tried to will it into being.

Her brother spun her around in one graceful, yet stiff, movement. He waited until she found her footing before sweeping her again across the floor as they danced.

“He’s an awful quiet boy, too,” he noted.

“ _Boy_?” Daenerys scrunched her nose, almost taking personal offence at the remark as she, just one year younger than Jon, was no mere _girl_. “He’s one-and-twenty,” she corrected as they spun together, catching a glimpse of Jon from over her brother’s shoulder, surprised to find his dark eyes already fixed on her.

After a second spin, she looked over her shoulder to spy Jon again, almost startled as their eyes locked on one another. He looked upset, brooding in just the way she remembered. Mayhaps she had offended him by taking her brother’s hand instead of his. The thought of it filled her with instant resentment. She knew Jon could speak—he had no problem chuckling with Rhaenys, even if he showed little interest in speaking with his betrothed. If he had truly wanted to dance with her, he could’ve asked at any point.

Turning her nose up in defiance, Dany looked away from Jon, though she could feel the weight of his gaze as it lingered.

“While I am grateful for any opportunity to tease you,” Viserys began, “Sometimes I wish our brother would have kept his beliefs to himself. You hide it well, but I can tell his expectations distress you.”

She frowned. “Was it hard for you, with Arianne?”

“At first,” he admitted. “I had to learn to be less stubborn.”

“Oh? Did that happen?” she wondered aloud. “I must’ve missed it.”

Viserys only smirked. “Choose your battles wisely, sweet sister. That is the best advice I can give.”

She took the words to heart. The couple were as different as night and day, a pairing that resembled her and Jon in more ways than one. Especially since, for all Arianne’s reassurances that Dany could find love outside her marriage, the girl had been mad for Viserys from the first moment she laid eyes on him. It was a feeling Dany understood all too well whenever she looked upon her nephew’s infuriatingly pretty face.

“Vis,” she said, feeling suddenly shy.

Raising a curious brow, he replied with just her name. “Dany.”

“What about the bedding?”

His lilac eyes went wide. “Oh, no,” he shook his head. “Whatever advice you need, I will leave it to my wife to give.” He paused to cringe. “I would sooner die than describe a single word of it to my sister.”

Daenerys chuckled, steering the conversation toward court gossip, instead.

When the bards began to play something much too upbeat for her brother’s tastes, they parted ways. Dany’s smile faded when her eyes landed on the high table, from which Jon was conspicuously absent. Unbeknownst to her as to why, her heart sank, aching with the sudden urge to correct the blunder.

Dany set off, weaving through the mass of merrymakers throughout the hall in search of her soon-to-be husband. Whether or not she liked it, she would be stuck with this man for the rest of her life, and thus, starting their marriage off on the right foot was more important to her than merely being right.

After several minutes of fruitless searching, she came to a rest against a pillar in the quietest corner she could find inside the Great Hall, hoping to catch a glimpse of him amidst the crowd. Instead, it was a familiar drawl she picked up on from somewhere behind her—a northern one.

“...can’t wait to get out of here,” the voice confessed.

After sneaking a peek around the pillar, Dany confirmed that it was Jon, talking with the same ironborn boy who had stumbled his way through a dance with Arianne. Dany pressed her body flat against the marble in an attempt to remain hidden, and listened in.

“Have you at least _tried_ to enjoy yourself?” asked the other one. “With the princess by your side, it can’t be _that_ hard.”

Dany flushed at her mention, fingers fidgeting with the lace of her skirt.

Jon said nothing.

“They sure don’t make ‘em like _that_ in the north,” his friend continued.

“Like what?”

“Like these Dornish girls, with their tight clothes and loose morals,” the ironborn snickered.

“Daenerys isn’t Dornish,” Jon flatly replied.

Dany frowned. She might as well have been.

“No. And you’re not northern,” his friend countered.

Again, Jon said nothing.

“She may not be Dornish, but she is every bit as beautiful as they say.”

“I suppose she is,” Jon agreed, a measure of reluctance to his voice.

It was silly, Dany knew, to be upset that he didn’t find her as comely as she had, him. And no matter how much she tried to assure herself that attraction was no priority in a marriage, she couldn’t control the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach at Jon’s lukewarm reception of her, having already made up his mind before so much as giving her a chance to change it.

Unwilling to bear a single word more, Dany pushed herself off of the pillar and wandered back into the crowd, feeling great alleviation once finally spotting a friendly face.

. . .

“ _Suppose_? Do you not have eyes? If she weren’t promised to you, I’d surely—”

“You’d keep your hands to yourself, Greyjoy. She’s not some tavern wench,” Jon snapped. His irritation had slowly built during the feast, not helped by his friend’s crass remarks. The angry bite of jealousy was unfamiliar, the sting made even more painful by the indifference, at best, that his betrothed harboured for him already. He remembered how cold her voice had been, how eager she seemed to leave his company when her brother had asked her to dance. And he was still cursing himself for not having asked first.

“You’re no fun,” Theon muttered, face turning into a scowl. “Would that Robb wasn’t so distracted with Lady Margaery. I cannot spend the whole feast stuck with your moods.”

Jon rolled his eyes, ignoring the jab. Theon smoothed out the non-existent wrinkles in his clothes before finding another Dornish girl to dance with, leaving Jon to wallow in his misery all by himself. _Good riddance_ , he thought, Theon’s words only managed to make him more bitter than he had already was.

It was a disaster. Jon leaned back against the pillar, its cool surface helping soothe his nerves some. They had barely exchanged ten words since he arrived. But every time he went to speak, one look into her violet eyes and his mind turned to a jumble. Even the most basic of greetings became complicated in the face of her beauty. Why couldn’t he be more like Robb? His cousin had no difficulties in speaking to his betrothed, and by the looks of it, their marriage would be a happy and passionate one. He cursed himself for not being able to at least tell Daenerys that he found her to be the most beautiful woman at the feast.

Perhaps his feet were trying to tell him something because before he realised, he wandered back to his table. He told himself it didn’t sting to see that Daenerys was nowhere to be seen. He swiped another horn of ale from a servant and almost downed it all in one big gulp. As he walked from table to table, speaking to people he only vaguely remembered, Jon told himself he was just acting as a proper host, he wasn’t looking for his betrothed—of course not.

When he circled back to their table, it was clear that Daenerys had retreated for the night. _Gods_ , why couldn’t he have asked her to dance? Not only was it encouraged, but it was his _duty_. They weren’t even married yet, and he’d already failed.

Deflated, Jon flopped into his chair, picking at whatever was left on the plate in front of him. He should have said something— _anything_ —when Rhaenys so kindly offered him the perfect opportunity to pay Daenerys a simple compliment. But how could he, when the way that dress hugged her curves left him breathless, stealing any semblance of eloquence straight from his head? Only then did it dawn on him that in less than a sennight, he’d know exactly what lay underneath her lavish gowns. His mind conjured images of her sun-kissed skin, blood rushing south when he realised that, soon, he’d discover even the pale parts of her body the Dornish sun couldn’t quite reach.

A cheer erupted from across the hall, shaking him from his lewd thoughts. In the middle of the room, Robb Stark and the Rose of Highgarden were attracting quite the crowd with their dancing. They looked like they belonged together—always had. Meanwhile, he and Daenerys were so different, that even superficially they looked like polar opposites. It was a bitter truth to swallow, that they may never have what his cousin and Lady Margaery will.

From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a flash of his aunt’s long silver hair. Perhaps he still had a chance to make it up to her.

“—each word more cold and callous than the last,” Daenerys said, her voice low but annoyed.

“I’m sorry, my sweet. I hoped—” Lady Arianne’s hushed voice stopped him dead in his tracks. His mind begged him to flee; somehow he knew he wouldn’t like what he was about to hear. His feet remained planted in place.

“I think it’s time I made peace with my fate.” Daenerys sounded sad. It made Jon feel sad, too.

“You make it seem so dire,” Arianne huffed. “So you’ll find a paramour or two once you give him a child, then you won’t have to deal with his frigid brute arse!”

Jon’s heart dropped to his stomach. _They are talking about me_ , he knew. Their cruel words were enough to make his legs move again. He walked until he was in the solace of his chambers. Who would have thought that he’d get to see the day when Theon would be right.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you liked this chapter, please leave a comment! 😊


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